


somnambulist waltz

by sylaises (Archedes)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Asexual Solas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/sylaises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he tells Lavellan, there in the grotto, beneath the statues of Ghilan’nain, between the stone walls painted red and black and white with the desperate fingers of those long dead. He tells them his true name, he tells them of the orb and Corypheus. He tells them of his guilt, of his responsibility for the lives lost at Haven and beyond. Every death, he tells them (words dragging painfully over his tongue), every single one is his to bear. And then he tells them more than he ever meant to: of Lavellan’s gods and their war and his role, of his betrayal, of the deaths of those spilled out onto the altars of Dirthamen, of the bodies burned black before the shrines of Sylaise, of the whippings in the market where sunbaked leather would lick the backs of slaves in the name of Elgar’nan. Of the throats slit, red running down the lengths of the bodies of children because they believed (because they had been told) it would appease the Wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somnambulist waltz

At the Temple of Mythal, Solas makes his decision before the Well is even reached. They complete the rites methodically (or they descend through the hole, thrashing through architecture older than their grandfathers’ grandfathers and crushing beneath their feet the history of an already-crushed people), but it gives him time to think. Lavellan deserves the truth, and he cannot help but torture himself with the thought of what that will mean for him—for them.

_But first:_

It is dark in the winding tunnel, but Lavellan’s hand is warm in his. Every so often he catches a glitter from the corner of his eye—when they look at him, expectant or curious or impatient. He has said little, only insisted that they come. And they do, because why would they not? “Why here of all places?” they ask because they have been through this cave before, hunting the heart of the wyvern that had protected it since long before the time when humans had come and built their Crestwood.

(Solas was reluctant at first; this grotto was one of the few elven places left untouched by human hands. But it mattered no longer. A different age, a different era, and the only one left to remember was him. So he let go, he helped them slay the beast with his own hands, and he moved on.)

When he answers, they have already emerged into the moonlight where the air is heavy with magic and condensation. The mist is languid, eddied by gentle gusts of wind that come from the tunnel behind them—a cool breath on the backs of their necks where the humidity lies thick. He leads them to the water’s edge and takes both their hands, feeling the callouses on their palms and fingers from months of travel and fighting, grappling for purchase on mountainsides and grabbing onto another when they see them begin to slip. Maybe Lavellan is smiling, or they are still standing there expectant or curious or impatient. Solas does not know because he is looking at their hands and noticing the way it feels when he runs his thumbs across the backs of their knuckles. What he must say cannot be delayed further, yet he finds himself unable to will his mouth to open.

Instead, he wants to ask why.  Why him? What had he done to cause this? How could it have been stopped? Could it have been stopped at all? At what point did he become tangled here, ensnared in the life of this mortal whose only defining feature (what had set them apart from the multitudes of elves he had known over the centuries) had long since lost its appeal to him? If it is not the Mark, then what? Loneliness?

Solas smiles (bitter at the thought though he tucks it away) and Lavellan smiles back, maybe hesitantly or maybe all at once, and maybe they even squeeze his hand in encouragement because they are many things, but a fool is not one.

_So:_

So he tells Lavellan, there in the grotto, beneath the statues of Ghilan’nain, between the stone walls painted red and black and white with the desperate fingers of those long dead. He tells them his true name, he tells them of the orb and Corypheus. He tells them of his guilt, of his responsibility for the lives lost at Haven and beyond. Every death, he tells them (words dragging painfully over his tongue), every single one is his to bear. And then he tells them more than he ever meant to: of Lavellan’s gods and their war and his role, of his betrayal, of the deaths of those spilled out onto the altars of Dirthamen, of the bodies burned black before the shrines of Sylaise, of the whippings in the market where sunbaked leather would lick the backs of slaves in the name of Elgar’nan. Of the throats slit, red running down the lengths of the bodies of children because they believed (because they had been told) it would appease the Wolf.

Everything he has carried on his back across the ages, he tells them, pours himself out there onto the grass littered with old bones and broken twigs. He humbles himself, lays himself bare—head bowed, eyes closed like a penitent sinner in prayer laid prostrate before the altar.

_Then:_

Then there is silence, long and suffocating, mixing in with the humidity and the mist and suddenly the breeze at his back has lost its soothing chill. Solas does not look up because he has sundered himself here before them, and what he feels is at once profound relief and harrowing regret. It is finished, he has made his decision, and he has willingly given up a piece of himself in the process (the one most precious and most terrible). There have been more years than he could ever count, but now (finally) he has laid down his burden and surrendered—wolf turned hound.

Lavellan’s hands are still warm, but it is masked by the nighttime heat of the grotto. Ages pass in which only the chirping of crickets breaches the stifling air. “Solas,” they speak his name quietly, and he finally lifts his head and looks at them.

In their eyes he finds uncertainty, fear, but their hands are firm around his. He searches for something to say, and the right words elude them as they so often do. So he settles with, “Forgive me, vhenan,” because that is all he has left to give them. Everything else has been hollowed out, carved and scraped from the inside of his ribcage and piled neatly at their feet. Time, he knows, is what he should give them, too, but he cannot. He has spent all his strength on this, and there is nothing left.

“It’s all right,” they say, and he does not believe them (dares not, must have misheard, echo from the wind in the tunnel). But they say it again because they must see the doubt on his face. They squeeze his hands. “It doesn’t matter.” Their voice falters—how could it not?—but they keep going, forging on, still trying to make sense of the mess he has put before them.

“It does. More than you know,” is all he says. They frown, and they want to protest (he can see it in their eyes) but they don’t, killing the words premature in their throat.

“You are still Solas, aren’t you?” They are pleading, and they pull his hands to their chest, holding them close. He can feel the rapid beat of their heart through their shirt, fluttering like hummingbird wings against his skin. “You would not tell me this if you weren’t.”

His hands are warm against them, and despite everything he thinks he deserves, he allows his doubts to be assuaged. He has given all for this, and it would be pointless to refuse them. They let go and grasp his face gently, and he allows them to pull him forward until their foreheads meet, fingers feather-light against the back of his head, the hollow of his ears. He closes his eyes. He lets go.

_Or:_

Lavellan recoils, their feet almost catching on the bones left from the wyvern. Their face twists in surprise, horror, and then finally anger. Something akin to disgust, perhaps, because though they knew (of course) of the Dread Wolf’s trickery, they never expected something like this. “Fen’Harel?” The question is a demand, a final plea, despite their horror, for him to deny it. To laugh and wave his hand and reveal it all to be in jest. But Solas merely stands there, arms hanging limp at his sides as he looks instead to the paintings on the stone behind them (there is thunder in their eyes and he does not wish to see it).

“I knew you were lying but—and all this time you—” Their words are jagged, a million accusations fighting to take to the air. Perhaps they fold their arms across their chest, or they curl their fingers into fists and press them to their temples. This is what he expected, and yet the ache in him grows because expectation is a poor buffer to pain. Lavellan has no weapons—they could not challenge him if they tried, and this they both know. So Lavellan can only stand there, impotent in their stuttering rage, horror tripping over the fear that they have failed the one tenet posed to every good Dalish: they did not know the face of their oldest enemy when he stood before them.

He does not ask for forgiveness: to do so would be to spit in their face, to wound them further. So instead Solas says, “Yes,” and waits for fury to find their tongue.

“You _caused_ this. You caused all of this. This is your fault,” they are not as biting as they should be, still struggling to reconcile him—this man in his frayed sweater and threadbare trousers—with the god-killing beast of legend.

“Yes.”

“Then, what?” Their lips pull back, teeth glinting in the gentle moonlight that sifts through the antlers of the towering hart statues overhead. “What was the point of all this? Why am I even here? What were you trying to do with me?” Each question has its own accusation embedded within, thin sharp needles that prick and draw blood as the words wash over him. He breathes out, is exhausted with the fatigue of thousands of years of mistakes of which this is only one more.

“Of all I have told you, I have never lied about this. About you and I.” He does not expect them to believe him—not now—and why should they? But he quickly finds that it does not matter. He has stripped himself raw only for Lavellan to feel disdain at what they see. Their jaw sets in a firm line, and without taking their eyes from him they back towards the tunnel leading out.

“Don’t come back,” they tell him, lifting their chin. “Don’t come back, or I’ll kill you myself.”

_So:_

So Solas tells them nothing, swallowing his words before they can slip out and ruin him. He puts his hand to their face, traces their markings, and speaks of ages past—of the vallaslin used to brand slaves of old for the honor of their masters. “What manner of god would that satisfy?” he wants to ask but does not, for that is skirting too close to the nature of what he is, though he wishes fervently for them to think beyond their Dalish devotion. But his desire to guide Lavellan to the truth is selfish, and so he refrains and tells them only what he believes they must know.

Then, for the sake of them both, he wrenches back the pieces of himself that he has given.


End file.
